We may have once had a crush on Mark Bittman. We may still have that crush. We may also have thought that this blog was the appropriate way to honor/stalk him. All of this may or may not be true/relevant. But we are friends who like food, cooking, (bourbon on the rocks) and each other's company, and this is our blog.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Hrumpf.

This morning I want to talk, briefly, about something that is amazing. Anyone who has ever received a home edition of the Sunday New York Times knows that they come in these curiously strong blue plastic bags. These bright blue bags act as a beacon of hope on a cold wet morning, when snuggling in bed with coffee and the paper is all you really want to do. You peer out the window, hoping that your delivery person made it through all the sleet and snow of Saturday night, and *gasp* then *sigh*, you see the blue bag on your front walk. The morning is safe, and you can return to bed for a few more minutes of sleep while waiting for the coffee to brew.

These blue bags are great not just for holding The Times, but a myriad of other things as well. In our house, they get stuffed in a basket by the front door and when we are taking the dog for a walk, we grab one to use as a poop-bag. I have also used them to hold sandwiches, a collection of parts from a child's crib, and dog treats. They must be made of very special plastic because they rarely break, and in the wettest weather, my paper is always dry.

Except for this morning. You knew this was coming right? My paper is wet. From the masthead to the fold - soaking. So I have spread the paper out in my living room to let it dry. I type this while I nurse my frustration and wait for the bread to toast. I know, I should be grateful that I can even get home delivery out here in the boondocks, but this really chaps my hide.